Who In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?
by Locked Heart Ami
Summary: DISCONTINUED. Carmen is caught when alternate Earths begin to fuse. Soon an odd mix of heroes attempt to answer that long unasked question... WHO in the world is Carmen Sandiego? Featuring Solid Snake, Gambit, Mulder, Batman, James Bond, etc.
1. Stranded On Libby Bert

I prefer to think of it as not so much stupid as ingenuitive, but to be honest it was stupid, and there's no way around that. I'm not even sure I'm glad I did it. Yes, it was the first in a crazy daisy chain of events, but it was hardly a promising start.

Anyway, I kind of suspect I would have ended involved somehow, even if I had stayed far, far away from the torch that night. But the fact is, I hate the Statue of Liberty. Liberty, my ass; I'm Hispanic myself and I assure you that America's streets are not paved with gold (several of mine are, allegorically of course, but that's through my own efforts). Lady Liberty's always offended me a little, nose stuck in the air, torch- I assume- stuck up an invisible Britain's ass. You know the damn thing isn't even American? Made by the French, in what I assume was their last act of friendship towards the USA. Look, the Big Apple can have its rotten symbol. All I wanted was the torch. You ask me why; I say, why not? It may not be an easy resale, but it would be a great conversation piece. I could put it on that piece of the Acropolis I was currently using as a coffee table.

I say it was a bad idea not because of the loot- sometimes you have to do things just for fun, you know?- but more because of the planning, which on my part was frankly shoddy. What could I do? I was passing through New York from LA- transferring a flight, you know, headed for Halifax, Nova Scotia, with an eye on adding The Wave to my own private collection. (I was into those eighties art-noveau pieces at the time. I apologize to whoever's reading for my obvious lack of taste.) And I was bumming around downtown, kind of watching with amusement all the guys trying to figure out whether I was a streetwalker or not, and I looked up and saw Lady Liberty with that glorified ice cream cone and all of a sudden, I just thought, you know- _I want it._

Crime waits for no woman. At least, that's my defense.

My lawyer tells me I need a better one.

Anyway, three that night, the city that never sleeps was fast asleep and I had grappled up miss Liberty's cocktail dress and was teetering on the mitt grabbing the torch, realizing all of a sudden that this was not my all-time most brilliant plan. Didn't have the right equipment to seperate the torch, or to take all of Libby- that's a several-helicopter-henchmen-clutching-megaphones kind of job. I didn't feel like heading back to my hotel room emptyhanded, though (some women want sex, I want uneasily relocated artifacts), so I was shuffling through my doctor's bag of doctored goods and found just what the doctor ordered- dynamite, baby, badda bing badda boom. (I hate that stupid restaurant, too.)

You probably think this is where the trouble started, and you're right. But due to the dynamite that has just been introduced to the situation, you probably think it was my fault. You probably think I blew off the torch while I was standing on it and fell right into Times Square. If you think this... you are wrong. Sorry, but I am not an idiot. I actually didn't even get a chance to use the dynamite (which is a shame, if presented with the opportunity to cause an explosion, I reccomend always taking it) because that's when the real, non-started-by-me, non-combustive-but-still-problematic trouble. I heard a noise, so I tossed the dynamite behind me with practiced speed-of sound quickness- shielded by much billowing red trenchcoat, which, by the way, is the garment's utilitarian purpose- and turned to see who was crashing my party.

It was a guy in a batsuit. Which, sadly, will turn out to be less dirty then it sounds.

First thing I thought was; New York porn grows steadily weirder. Didn't see a camera so I discarded this thought and hypothesized instead; okay, cute. Bat burgler. I can deal. But the fact is, the guy was already starting to creep me out. He had this really steely gaze and a grimly set jaw of the S+M romance novel variety and when he spoke, his voice was tough and harsh enough that it belied the fact he was dressed us a rodent. "Don't jump."

I laughed inside but I didn't BAT (ha ha ha... okay, yes, you can shoot me) an eyelash. "Wow," I said gravely. "I really grappled up here with the intention of ending it all, because my life is full of misery, pain and turmoil. I think they're planning to write a tragic opera about me."

He blinked.

"Now that you've come up here, though, Bats," I continued soberly, placing a fluttering hand on my chest, "And deigned to suggest I not take the plunge into New York City's traffic, I see the world in a different way. I've had a change of heart. My life is no longer so cold and alone. I think I-"

And then my coat billowed a little too far to the right- you never know with these three-hundred-feet-from-the-ground winds, and Bats blinked again and said suddenly, "Is that dynamite?"

I radically interpreted this text as being rhetorical and tried to make a run for it but the thing is, standing on the hand of the Statue Of Liberty with your grappling equipment all packed away and a guy in a batsuit between you and any speedy descent ending less than fifteen broken bones... is... not a great situation for a thief to be in. (Take my word for it, cherished peers; stick close to sea level when hustling New York.) Needless to say Bats caught me as I tried to flutter attractively by him and a second later my wrists were tied by a nylon cord with a bat-shaped clasp (again I say: SCARY PORN). I would like to say my next move was to cunningly escape in an equally cunning fashion, but I think it is important to be completely honest right now, and the honest truth is; I pretty much shat myself.

_Carmen Isabela Sandiego. Most dangerous and wanted thief on the planet. Ringleader of VILE, scourge of ACME, proud owner of about an eighth of the no-longer-so Great Wall Of China... captured on top of Libby Bert by some middle-aged codger in a goddamn bat suit. Hell, maybe I should jump. _But an embarrassed Carmen is better than a squishy sidewalk Carmen, so I didn't jump. Instead, I tried to surmount my burning shame and think of some way out of the radically unpromising situation. No such route sprang forth.

"Are you with the Joker?" he asked me. Up close he looked a little younger, and a lot scarier. I no longer felt so frisky and keen to crack pest-control jokes.

"Running from them," I replied, struggling perfunctorally. We both knew the rope wasn't gonna break, but it was important to my pride that I appear to put up a fight. "I'm assuming you mean ACME."

His eyes narrowed, he grasped me by my shoulders and I suddenly found myself dangling over the distant New York cabs in a way I had absolutely no desire to be. "A straight answer."

"Line segments!" I snapped, fighting the urge to kick and struggle. You kick and struggle when guys like this get over the temper tantrum- not when you're about to plummet eighty stories into caboodles of traffic.

"Funny girl," he noted, and released one shoulder.

This guy was stupidly strong and I was strongly scared stupid. "I don't know what you want!" I bleated, in a manner so embarrassing that when I look back on it I try to make sure it's from the bottom of a shot glass. "What do you want? What are you talking about?"

"Are- you- with- the- joker?"

"No!" I baa'ed again, hoping it was the right answer.

Eyes narrowed to slits, he pulled me back to safety.

My knees gave out and I sat heavily in the crook of Lady Liberty's elbow. "You're insane," I gasped. "That was reckless endangerment. I'm going to sue you within an inch of your life, you badly-costumed creep."

One eyebrow lifted fractionally behind the black leather cowl. Not in an amused way, in a creepy I'm-all-business-and-you're-wasting-my-time way. "You were out there with a doctor's bag full of dynamite. I doubt you're in good standing with the courts."

My cunning reply- I assure you that I had one- was abruptly cut off when we heard a crashing noise from the other side of Lady Liberty's ear.

"In one ear and out the other," I noted.

Bats made a noise which sounded a little bit like 'what now?' and grabbed something from his utility belt- a second later, he swung below Libby's collarbone to the other side, out of sight, I followed in a more I-want-to-live-to-see-tomorrow manner. It took me a second to believe what I was seeing on the other side of the statue- two guys, both big, hairy and mean looking enough to qualify as WWF backups, were beating the crap out of each other, balanced precariously on Bert's shoulderblade. I blinked, trying to understand what the hell was going on. When my eyes opened again, however, the WWF grudgematch proved to have been a one-second-long engagement; the smaller, dark guy had hit the big one off the statue. I winced as a I watched him diminish into a large speck, thankful he vanished before the speck became a splat on the sidewalk. I wasn't really surprised the smaller guy had won. Six mean-looking blades extended from his knuckles with Sonic-spinoff ease. He was hairy, I noted, and had a very Werewolf-In-London flavor- probably minus the London.

"Do I smell what The Rock is cooking?" I said weakly, by way of introduction.

Maybe I should have started with something like, 'good evening, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you'- guy didn't seem to like the introduction I did pick much, because in a hop skip and a jump (on his part) those wicked claws were up against my neck. Bats, evidently acting on pure this-is-my-bounty-not-yours instinct, ripped a tranq gun out of his pocket and levelled it at the Wolfman. Technically unlethal, but anyone who passes out on the Statue Of Liberty's neckline... well... they don't call it 'falling' asleep for nothing. Now, me, I sensed a second of vulnerability in Bats, and I grabbed it- threw my bound hands over his head and around his neck. If I pulled, I'd garrote him- he'd fall, but so would I.

It was a Mexican standoff, and I'm from Puerto Rico.

Wolfman spoke first. "Scarlet Witch?" He barked suspiciously, squinting at me.

"They call me Lady In Red," I shot back. "Thanks for asking, though. Bats here didn't even want my name."

Bats was squinting at the wolfman with equal confusion. "Ra's Al Ghul?"

Wolfman growled. "What did you just call me?"

"I think he said you were cool," I explained helpfully.

Another growl of frustration from Wolf. "Look, just give me a straight answer. Are you two with Magneto?"

"I stole a magnetic pole once," I offered weakly.

"You are under Joker," Bats accused, evidently forgetting I could strangle him any time I felt so inclined. "You're a thief."

"Thief, yes," I snapped, "But I don't work under anybody. What about you two? Are you with ACME?"

Wolf shook his head. "I'm with the X-Men. You two mutants?" He jerked his head at Bats. "You must be."

And Bats' stoic calm finally cracked. "Are you dense?" he asked in disbelief, slowly lowering the gun. "Seriously- are you retarded or something? I'm the goddamn Batman."

"Never heard of you," Wolf insisted.

"Okay, you know what?" I cried, releasing Bats and lowering my hands again to my front. This was all going nowhere, fast, and if you want something done right, do it yourself. "This is getting ridiculous. Toys down until we can figure this out. That includes you," I said pointedly to the Wolfman, who reluctant popped the claws- _into his fists._ Okay, I'll admit that one threw me. I've been a lot of places and seen a lot of things, but that one, not recently.

"Wolverine," Wolfman said steadily. He crossed his arms over his chest; I noticed that, when he wasn't busy being terrifying, he was actually kind of short. "I'm with the X-Men. Civil rights group. Not terrorists," he added quickly, noting Bats' unimpressed noise. "We're pacifistic."

"Letting that guy fall off Libby didn't look very pacifistic," I noted.

"Sabertooth. He's with Magneto," Wolverine said. "The Brotherhood. They're planning something big on Liberty Island. I got sent out to recon. Guess I wasn't as sneaky as I thought, and I had to cover my tracks. Trust me," he finished, looking almost disdainful, "Guy deserved it. Also, I guarantee he's not dead. What about you two."

"I am the night," Bats declared.

But we just kind of looked at him with really unimpressed looks and he billowed his cape irritably, snapping. "I'm Batman. Do you honestly not know who I am?"

We both shook our heads.

"How long have you been in Gotham?" He demanded.

"Gotham?" We echoed, in a two-part Greek chorus.

His next words, when he picked them, were the careful kind you use with the highly-strung insane. "Where do you two think you are?"

"I can't speak for Knuckles here," I replied. "But I was staying overnight in New York City."

"Really." Batman's look, behind the cowl, was measured. "And who, miss, exactly are you?"

"I'm the world's greatest thief," I said, some pride creeping into my voice. Admittedly Batman didn't seem all that impressed with thieves, but if you've got it, flaunt it. "I'm sure you've heard of me. I'm the head of VILE. My name is Carmen Sandiego."

Bats and Wolverine exchanged a mystified glance. Wolverine spoke first, and when he did, I knew we had hit rock-bottom.

"Who in the world is Carmen Sandiego?"


	2. Place Is Turning Into A Zoo

And then we were all immediately arrested.

Well, not IMMEDIATELY immediately. I didn't blink and open my eyes and realize; "lovely, I'm in a cell". In fact, it all seemed to go painfully slowly at the time. But before I had a chance to inform the… SADLY uninformed Wolverine and Batman of "who in the world" Carmen Sandiego was, there were suddenly about fifty SEALs around us.

Not the circus kind. The Navy kind. The oh, crap, here comes the conviction of twenty-five to life kind.

"Put your hands up in the air," barked one, rifle trained better than a Doberman, and I didn't think he was suggesting we dance, so up my hands obligingly crept.

Batman and Wolverine were not so clever.

Well, okay, you have to give credit to Batman. He dropped a smoke grenade and was out of there in seconds. Guy is fast like a freak. (Still, I wish he had been a little bit more considerate. The SEALs all started firing completely at random when the grenade went off and somebody could have gotten hurt. There were no fatalities, luckily, but my hat suffered serious injury, rim-wise.) Smoke cleared and I realized Wolverine, like me, had no such modes of invisible teleportation. However, while I was still hoping to work out a comprimise with the testy SEALs, he had resorted to violence and had all six of those scary metal claws testing the air.

Men are all the bloody same. Even the hairy ones.

"Are you a moron?" I yelled. "They'll shoot you!"

I meant the question to be rhetorical, but he shook his head. "Won't matter."

Needless to say, the SEALs were not keen to clap for the wolfman and had him surrounded, so fast it was like it happened five minutes ago. Bad luck for them, because he fought them off and about five SEALs tumbled to sidewalky dooms in just as many seconds.

Then, for the second time that evening (which I count among my worst, much worse than the one I spent trying to break into the Tower Of London) I found myself dangling freely off Lady Liberty, held by my collar this time.

It was the Navy SEALs captain. Son of a bitch! This is the army my taxes support. Or they would be, if I paid any taxes. You can't be a legal resident of about twenty countries and pay taxes. Despite my dreams and wishes, I am not a money tree.

But I digress.

There I was, dangling off Libby Bert, only just managing through great bravery not to scream and through great presence of mind to keep my shoes on. (Imagine being impaled by a red stiletto, dropped from thirty thousand feet? Amusing, but not the best way to go.) As aforementioned, it was not Batman dangling me this time, but the SEAL captain. On the whole I preferred Batman- who didn't hold me by the collar, and had used both hands, and who, despite the fact I'd only met him thirty seconds ago and he wore a leather batsuit, I trusted a lot more.

"I'll drop her," the SEAL captain barked, and shook me for emphasis. Again, took great efforts of will not to scream. "I'll do it. De-arm."

"What makes you think I care about her?" Wolverine said scornfully. "I just met the broad."

"Oh, thanks," I said with the kind of sarcasm only achieved at such great heights. The SEAL captain seemed equally unimpressed.

"You're one of the X-Men, right?" He scoffed. "We know all about you guys. Pacifistic terrorists. You won't let a bystander get hurt."

"I wasn't really standing by-" I began, then considered the modern effects of telling a Navy SEAL I had a bunch of dynamite sitting on Lady Liberty, and decided against it. I don't need a bullshit terrorism rap. I've got enough standing convictions thankyouverymuch.

Wolverine hesitated, then slowly popped his claws back in with the kind of "SNICKT!" sound that makes your ears want to bleed. The SEALs, however, wasted no time- they wrassled him into this weird kind of handcuff-choker thing, so that if he popped the claws again, he'd impale himself. That one threw me for a loop. If they had a custom-built restraint for the Wolfman (and, admittedly, I'm just assuming the army doesn't deal with guys with built-in claws on a regular basis) then obviously, they'd had to put down this bad doggie more than once before. I had to consider that maybe this had all moved beyond petty larceny.

The SEAL captain pulled me back to safety. I rubbed my neck where my collar had held me aloft. "I hate to break it to you, but I really don't think you're the best you can be in the army."

"Shut up," he said shortly.

"Hey, boss," one of the SEALs yelled at him. "There's a bag of explosives over here."

Oh fuckityfuckityfuck this was NOT going my way. "They're cold," I said immediately. "I'm not trying to destroy your beloved peasant village or anything. I mean, look at me, I'm a woman in high heels and red, do you think there's even a terrorist organization that will have me?"

They really weren't listening to me. "I'm the whore of Babylon!" I exclaimed desperately. "Hell, I've even BEEN to Babylon, how many infidel Americans can say that!"  
"Shut up," said the SEAL captain.

I was starting to realize this guy had a very limited vocabulary.

"She's probably one of the X-Men." He told the guy who found my dynamite (in retrospect I should've known they'd find it, the Statue of Liberty doesn't take that long to search).

"I don't even know what that is," I replied very cooperatively.

"Yeah," said the guy, like it just dawned on him. "Hey, isn't there one called Scarlet Witch?"

You ever have that feeling where you want to rip someone apart by their earlobes? I had that feeling right then. Unfortunately I was unable to facilitate that because my hands- already bound by that damn lame bat-cord- were suddenly trussed up in army-issue handcuffs as well.

"I demand to speak to my lawyer," I began.

"Shut up."

"I demand to speak to General Nick Fury," Wolverine growled, and if nothing else it was at least nice to see that we were working together on this. Somewhat. "Tell him to contact Xavier. Or Emma Frost."

"Shut up."

Wolverine and I exchanged a look of not shutting up, but we said nothing.

He frowned off in the direction Batman disappeared in (which, since he had no idea where Batman had disappeared, just meant he looked all around disapprovingly). "Who was your friend?"

"That batsuited freak?" Wolverine said disbelievingly. "No friend of mine. Never seen the guy."

I was equally guilty of having no clue, of course, but I wasn't going to give them a straight answer when I was perfectly capable of offering a crooked one. "Oh, I am sorry, soldier," I cooed, batting my long, languorous eyelashes, "But you told us to shut up. I would hate to go against your orders."

He looked unimpressed, but didn't ask again.

"Get them down there." The SEAL leader ordered, freezing the dynamite with coolant and handing it to one of his bitches- oh, excuse me, subordinates. "Put them in the van.

"I don't want to get in the van," I said immediately. "Is there some rule that says I have to go in the van?"

Silence.  
"Can I at least ask for your badge numbers or something before I get in the van?"

Silence.

"Maybe by Van you're talking about like, Van Morrison? I'm perfectly willing to get into him."

"Shut up."

I did.

As it turned out, to my disappointment, I was not being invited to do Van Morrison. "The Van", at the base of Lady Liberty, was one of those armored trucks that the army uses to transport Hannibal-Lecter types. I'll admit it, I felt special. But it was also pretty worrying, especially when they shut Wolverine and I in the back and drove off without a word. I asked them about fifty times where we were going, then I gave up. There's only so much a delicate criminal constitution can take.

The area we stopped looked like New Jersey- we were certainly driving long enough- anyway, it definitely wasn't Manhattan. To be honest, I wasn't able to focus on orientating myself as much as I would have liked to in a wonderful world. I was too busy noticing the fence- a delightfully frightening jambalaya of cement and barbed wire.

Yup, I was in trouble.

"Look," I said to the SEALs as they yanked Wolverine and I- none too gently- off the van, "This has been lovely and you lads are great, but I'm completely busy, my itinerary's loaded up with moving violations-"

"Shut up," one of them barked. So that was as far as I got.

They marched us under the New England moon through the doors of what appeared to be the main building (you could only tell by size, since they were all made of the same depressingly sturdy concrete.) Someone was waiting for us in the bare room we were rudely shoved into- a colonel, judging by his uniform. Despite his rank, I could tell the guy had seen better days. Sure, the bare bulb swinging from the ceiling didn't give off the most picture-perfect light, but the guy was old. A warhorse, sure, but almost ready to get put out for pasture.

"Is this about your pension?" I asked sweetly. He frowned.

"Shut up," the SEAL leader suggested one last time, for the road. "Everyone who was up there, Colonel Campbell. There was another guy, in disguise, but he got away. My men are looking for him."

"Thank you, Johnny, tell it to the debriefers," Campbell said briefly.

Smartly saluting the colonel, the SEAL shut Wolverine and I in there behind a rusted metal door. Handcuffed and alone with a clawed freak and an almost-officer-of-the-law. A wonderful time was not guaranteed for all (all, in this case, being me).

"No," the colonel told me, and it took me a second to realize he was answering my question. Funnily enough, I had kind of meant it to be rhetorical. "This is about-"

And then someone else burst in, which, I have to confide, was getting pretty old.

On the side of novelty, however, at least it was two people- a guy and a girl. Guy was good-looking, kind of, if you're into the wounded-puppy type His partner, despite being about three feet tall, looked like she meant business.

Everyone was looking an awful lot like they meant business recently. I disapproved.

The warhorse squinted at them with disbelief as they let themselves in, looking quite comfortable. "And who might you be?"

"Agents Mulder and Scully," the guy said. "FBI."

Puppy eyes- Mulder- looked like he thought this ought to be enough. Colonel Campbell evidently disagreed. "Let me see some ID."

Scully handed over her badge without a word. Campbell squinted at it as though he could make it burst into flames. He was mistaken about his Carrieesque powers, however, and at length returned the badges with a frown, saying, "The army isn't interested in cooperating with the Bureau of Investigation on this matter, at least not at present. Please tell your superiors to go through the correct channels."

"Our superiors," Scully said, in the lofty voice of a stuck-up and educated Irishwoman- I know the type- "Didn't realize we would be dealing with the army at all."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Same thing you're doing," Mulder said softly. "Investigating an exciting find shining bright above Lady Liberty."

"Our directions were just to observe and question," Scully continued, with irritation. "Unfortunately, your men saw fit to remove the only witnesses- and potential suspects- to this compound. Speaking of which, may I see your identification?"

"You doubt my credentials?"

"Just… hand it over."

Campbell deigned to allow them to inspect his papers while Wolverine and I exchanged another lengthy "WTF?" look (we were getting quite proficient). Scully squinted at them, flipped them, examined- then, just as Campbell looked as though he would demand them back- she said, with the look of a fox sighting a hound, "These papers aren't in order."

"Excuse me?" Campbell was trying not to look offended, and failing miserably. "Not in order? My name, my date of birth-"

"You identity, Mr. Campbell- Colonel?- is not the problem," Agent Scully said briefly. "All your personal information is incorrigible. What worries me is that the army unit 'FOX-HOUND' does not exist."

Campbell blinked at her.

"Needless to say, this raises disturbing questions about exactly where this prison in the forest of New Jersey-" (called it!)- "Came from, let alone what kind of procedures have been conducted-"

Campbell shook a dismissive hand, raising his voice. "If the FBI hasn't been briefed on FOX-HOUND, that's not my problem. Contact President James Johnson-"

"The President, Colonel Campbell," exclaimed Scully, finally blowing that Irish cool, "Is William Clinton!"

Mulder cleared his throat then. From the look Scully shot him, I could tell he was not commonly the voice of reason. "May I suggest we hash this out when our suspects are safely interred?" he said quietly, though I caught a note of sardony. "For all I know the president right now could be Honest Abe, but we should get these folks comfortable before we start perusing American History."

Scully and Campbell both hesitated.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mulder said firmly. "Colonel Campbell? Could you please call back Captain Sasaki? His services may be required?"

His services weren't THAT required. I mean, I went willingly. I'm not stupid. Just, evidently, very unlucky. We got the usual done- mug shots, fingerprints, personal info, I figured they'd have my profile up on the computer in about ten seconds- then marched us down to holding.

They put Wolverine and I in the same cell, which I objected to, on the grounds that a snazzy red trench coat was not going to stand up against six superclaws if my roommate got Cell Fever. For all the attention they paid me, I might have been talking to Johnny again. I'm definitely revoking my American citizenship. Even the French weren't this rude.

When Scully, Mulder and Campbell left the cell corridor- voices still raised in argument as the heavy metal door slammed locked behind them- I sank onto the cot, head in my hands. I could feel the situation slipping out of my control like soap in a Japanese bath.

Wolverine misinterpreted my despondency. "This your first arrest?" he growled, though the fact that he was sharpening his claws against the bars prevented him from being any kind of comforting.  
"Like my seventeenth and a half," I replied miserably. "They're becoming disgustingly boring."

His eyebrows shot up. "What you been in for?"

"Grand theft. Convicted every single time, too, but I always manage to escape."  
"You need a better lawyer," he said, blowing on the claws. They glinted alarmingly.

"Nah. That'd just make me careless." I pushed my hat down harder on my head, sighing, and wilted against the wall.

"So… what?" Wolverine said, now shadow-boxing in the corner. "You in a car-theft ring or something?"

"Not cars."

"Jewelry?"  
"Priceless artifacts."

"Like what? Museum pieces?"

I leaned back against the wall. "You could say that."

"So what was the last thing you stole?"

"The beans from Lima."

"The… beans from Lima….?"

"Shh," I said miserably. "Tell the British tabloids, why don't you?"

"I just… don't get it," he said slowly. "Some of the beans? All of them? A particular variety? ...Is this some kind of metaphor for a… sick sexual act that can't be described?"

I rolled my eyes, settling under my hat.

He tried a different tack. "So what ring you working for?"

"V.I.L.E.," I said.  
"Oh," he said. "Thought it might've been the Brotherhood. Smart girl like you."

"I'm doing fine for myself," I said a little snappishly. "I run V.I.L.E.. Better to be first among roosters than last among bulls."

"That some kind of Chinese proverb?" he said suspiciously. "Ain't never heard that one from Jubillee."

"It _was _a Chinese proverb," I replied. "I improved it."

"So you run V.I.L.E.," he mused, almost testing the word out. "Catchy name. Lebeau would love you. You single?"

I decided this conversation had gone far enough into my personal life; time to turn the tables. "Not when I'm alone in cells with strange men. So what's with those claws?" I asked curiously.

He regarded me from under magnificently large eyebrows, eyes themselves narrow. "Told you I was with the X-Men, didn't I?"

"Told you I'd never heard of them, didn't I?"

"I can't believe you've never heard of the X-Men."

"Yeah, well, I can't believe you've never heard of Carmen Sandiego," I said diffidently. "So what's the deal? Do all their agents need scratching posts?"

"Claws are the cause, not the symptom," Wolverine said lowly.

"Pretty crazy that the army has handcuffs all… custom made for you and everything. You've obviously made your time before."

"Maybe. My memory's a little foggy in that area," he said quietly, not looking at me.

I was about to tell him to drop the cryptic bullshit and just tell me what he meant like a normal person, when all of a sudden this random guy jumped out of the air duct.

Okay, I was surprised. I might have jumped a little. Or a lot.

Or several feet in the air, while having a heart attack.

"Wolverine," I yelped, "Found you a scratching post."

Wolverine had those claws out almost before I said it. "Who the hell are you?" He barked at the new arrival, stepping in front of me (how gentlemanly… not), looking like he was almost hoping for a fight.

I peered out from around Wolverine. New guy was ripped, in his forties, desperately in need of a shave. Hard, soldier's eyes. Black bandana. A mouth that twisted like an old wound, with pain and sardony. I liked him immediately without even knowing why. "Call me Solid Snake," he said. He had a voice like sandpaper, which is a lot sexier than it sounds. "Wolverine? Carmen Sandiego?"

Solid Snake, Wolverine, FOX-HOUND, Batman. Place was turning into a damn zoo.

"Present on all counts," I shot back suspiciously. He might be smoking hot, but he had still just dropped from the ceiling. "What do you want?" I noticed he was wearing something tight, black- army-esque. "You guys better not go all Guatanamo on us," I told him. "So help me, I'll sue."

He just sent me a blank look and card-keyed the door, which slid very easily open. Wolverine and I stared at it blankly, all witty repertoire failing.

"You wanna get out of here, right?" Snake said, with that ovary-rocking twisted smile. "Follow me. And keep your mouths shut. Even if you're short-" he jerked a chin at Wolverine- "The air ducts are a tight fit. A flawless escape isn't going to be easy."

An escape through the air ducts? Stupid.

Waiting around for both the FBI and some top-secret military squad? Stupider.

"Come on, Carmen," Snake said impatiently as I shrugged off my coat, rolling

and tying it around my waist. He was already helping Wolverine into the duct. "Last train's leaving. All aboard."


	3. Mixed Metaphors And Some Sexual Tension

I am not naked under my trenchcoat.

Just in case you were wondering. I'm aware that I rarely- okay, never- take it off, but it's a style issue (as well as one of avoiding identification). It's not because I'm doing my best impersonation of Lady Godiva underneath. Carmen Sandiego has committed many crimes, but indecent exposure has not been among them. Thus far, anyway.

As proof, here is a list of things I wear under my trenchcoat, on a four-days-out-of-seven basis.

-A black turtleneck.

-Denim capris.

-Black combat boots. These go on my feet.

-Underwear of varying colours, styles and nationalities.

-The most supportive bra available. If you've never had to rappel down the Eiffel Tower, you have NO idea how essential this is.

I mention all this merely because, while crawling down the absurdly narrow air shaft (do the people who design these have NO regard for escaping criminals?), Wolverine grunted, "Figures you'd have something on underneath."

"Huh?" I interrogated him brilliantly.

"I was looking forward to the view up that trenchcoat."

Men are such total idiots. Maybe I was taking my frustrations with the situation out on him, but I snapped (probably much louder than was nessessary), "I'm not NAKED, you know."

"I wasn't saying-"

"You think I'd go cavorting around several thousand feet in the air without pants on? This isn't the line of work for some stylish-yet-affordable pencil skirt!"

"You make a career out of the immoral theft of priceless artifacts," Wolverine said, "And you care whether people see your panties?"

Touché.

"Keep it down," Snake barked, which was like an animal traffic accident. "You're gonna get us busted." We grumbled accordingly, but were quiet.

"How long until we're out of here?" I said after a second's pause, in my best stage-whisper.

"And who the hell are you, anyway?" Wolverine asked politely.

"Ask your questions when we're clear," Snake snapped. "Right now, shut up."

Amazing, how different something can sound when two people say it. When Navy-SEAL Johnny told me to shut up, I wanted to smack him in the gob. Now Snake tells me the same thing… well, I want to smack him in the mouth too, but not in a violent way. More in a kissy way.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. "But CARMEN! You just met this guy and despite the fact that he's unshaved and dressed in skintight leather, you barely know him! This sudden animal magnetism (animal because he's a snake, ha ha) smacks of fan service!" And my reply is: I agree. It's random and completely inappropriate. BADLY misplaced. So why was it so fucking persistent?

I didn't ask Snake how he knew the layout of these air shafts, because I had a feeling it would have broken the Shut Up rule. In fact, I did a pretty awesome job of staying quiet- until I felt something small and squirmy slither by me. "Are there rats in here?" I squealed.

SNIKT, went Wolvie's claws, and there was a shiskabobbing noise. "Not anymore," he said grimly.

And we all got pretty quiet again.

Just when I was starting to think that Snake actually had no plan and was just leading us around for a story to tell on Friday nights over beer, he abruptly stopped. Wolverine and I did a spatially restricted domino dance as he whispered, "Otacon. We're clear."

I was torn between asking him what the hell that meant, and making fun of him for any familiarity with the term "Otacon", when he pulled the grating off the grille up ahead and dropped back into the building proper. Wolverine hesitated, then pursued him, which left me (of course) with no choice but to follow suit.

We were in the garbage room. It was filled, as its name suggests, with black bags of garbage, waiting patiently to be picked up. Kind of stunk, but beat the hell out of playing cat and mouse with FOX-HOUND (god, these mixed metaphors are killing me like a little fish out of water in a big pond). Very quietly Snake opened the door, which wasn't even locked.

There was a truck idling outside, not six feet from us. "Shit!" I exclaimed; busted before we'd even properly escaped.

"No worries," Snake said quickly. "It's my truck."

"No kidding," Wolverine noted. "Honda?"

"I don't know."

Wolverine raised an eyebrow.

"Well, it's not mine as in I OWN it," Snake admitted.

"What other kind of MINE is there?"

"The kind where I borrow it from army black-ops and forget to return it. Ever."

"That's when it BECOMES yours," I said encouragingly.

Whoever was waiting in the truck gunned the motor with pointed irritation, advancing a few feet threateningly.

"Uh oh," Snake muttered. "The truck are started to move."

Before I could comment on someone having borrowed the grammar from his shed-of-life and forgotten to return it after pruning the hedge of adversity, Snake swung himself into the open back of the truck. Wolverine and I exchanged looks, then followed suit, landing on a metal grating amidst a multitude of cardboard packaging.

"Here," Snake said, handing me a particularly large box.

I took it awkwardly, with handcuffed hands. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Get underneath," he replied, pushing another box at Wolverine.

"Excuse me?" I stared at the box: large, brown-corrugated, marked "TO HELIPORT". Lying in wait to steal all my dignity.

"We have to get you past the FOX-HOUND security," he pointed out. "You think they're going to accept it if you and the Wolfman are dangling off the back?"

Escape secret governmental facility. Retain last vestige of dignity. I stared at the box, weighing my options. Escape. Dignity.

Esgnity?

Wolverine had already hidden himself; Snake glanced over, noticing my indecision. "Take care of your box," he intoned, "And your box will take care of you."

I gave up and, encasing myself in a cardboard cube, waited for the next affront to my pride. Could hear Snake, dropping Box B over himself as the truck slowly began to drive, with the low crunch of tyres on gravel. I thought about the night; Libby, Bats, Wolfman, capture by SEALE with a vocabulary of two words, thrown into secret government prison, busted out by bondage-gear-donning scruffy nerfherder. All completely ridiculous, I decided, as my teeth rattled with the truck's vibrations. Even in a life where a typical day involved nicking a pyramid. It offended my sensibilities that it was also all true.

The vehicle stopped abruptly. Shit, I thought with gritted teeth, willing myself not to panick.

I heard an irritated voice, a little ahead of us, muffled. "What's in the truck?"

"Nothing," another male voice replied, a little too defensively. I cursed mentally; Snake's accomplice was not an equally cunning master of tactical espionage action. "We had too many supplies on-base. You saw… the back was full of boxes. Right?"

"I'm gonna have to examine those boxes," the first voice- which I assumed was another goddamn SEALE, they've got a breeding problem- grunted suspiciously.

"Hey, mon ami," a new voice interceded- low, smooth, with a heavy French action. Weird dialect. Acadian? Cajun? "You don't really need to see those boxes, non? We'd just be wasting your time. Why don't you let us through?"

I waited on tenterhooks as the SEELE debated it. (What the hell is a tenterhook, anyway?) Then, to my resolute joy, the truck stopped idling and began inching forwards again. Nobody stopped us.

It felt like we drove for a long time, although a trip to the petrol station feels long when you're handcuffed inside a cardboard box that smells like oranges. The faint gray shine of day was just filtering itself into a corrugated half-light when the truck finally stopped again.

Snake's voice. "We clear?"

"Yeah, we're clear." Affirmed his companion, who still sounded terse.

"Good," Snake grunted, and I heard cardboard boxy noises, which I assumed meant I could come out come out wherever I was. Thus I proceeded to do so very quickly; Snake was already in the open, and Wolverine was out a second later.

I intended to ask, you know, can you find me a shower and room service and get these cuffs off me thank you very much- but Wolverine (like the attention hogger he IS) spoke first. "Who was that frog?" he demanded of Snake. Snake raised one eyebrow, and Wolverine barked again, "Who was that?"

"You're a teepee, you're a wigwam, you're a teepee, you're a wigwam!" I hissed in his ear.

He glanced at me with concentrated bewilderment. "What?"

"You're too tense," I explained innocently. "Two tents? Too tense? Get it?" Snake and Wolfman did get it, judging by their harmonized groans.

Wolverine was spared from having to ask Snake about The Frog again, because at that second, our brave, intrepid rescuers came around to meet us in the back of the truck.

Two guys- skinny spectacled dude in a lab coat, unshaven, I guess the scruffy nerfherder look is coming in for spring. The other guy was of the variety that causes Carmen to raise her eyebrows; underneath a stylishly billowing trench (I had drama-departmental competition) he appeared to be clad in little more than jeans, and full-length bodystocking (I'm talking the king that goes right up your neck and face) and some evidently solely decorative body armor.

Meow. Guy had ABS.

Wolverine groaned when he saw Ab Guy. "The CAJUN. I should've guessed."

The way "Cajun" rolled off Wolfman's tongue, like it was a dire curse, amused me- but only briefly. "Otacon," Snake said tersely, and I tuned in to listen.

"Got you out, didn't I?" Otacon offered meekly, shoving his glasses up his nose.

"Good job. Where are we?"

"I took the liberty of suggesting we rendezvous at Xavier's School," Abby Cajun replied. I recognized the voice as belonging to Jedi Mind Trick voice, back on the truck. "It seemed safer than the warehouse you suggested, non? Less… immediately penetrable with a flamethrower."

I had to laugh at that, a little nervously. After a night like I'd had, everything seemed funny. And hey, guy had a good grasp of the Army. Abby Cajun seemed only to notice me then, though. "Ah," he said grandly. "I recognized the scruffy one, but who's la femme rouge?"

"Carmen Sandiego?" I introduced myself, having become disappointingly used to people not knowing my name.

"Enchante," Abby Cajun said. "The name's Gambit." He attempted to kiss my hand, which was severely complicated by the fact that I was still in both army- and bat-issued handcuffs.

Which reminded me. "Uh, yeah. That's great, nice to meet you. Now, do you guys think you could get these cuffs off? I HATE to be a bother, but I find that of late, I'm just relying more and more on those handy-dandy opposable thumbs. No pun intended."

Wolverine appeared to support this request, as he was still wearing the custom muzzle that kept his hand pinned to his chest. Otacon jumped, as though just remembering. "Oh, right. Uh… Gambit?"

Gambit reached out and grasped my handcuffs. They glowed a bright, radioactive red- only for about two seconds. Then they shattered, scattering. In a moment of extreme lameness, I shrieked and tried to shield myself from the pieces. Wolverine ignored me, but Gambit darted in front of me protectively. I massaged my chafed wrists, wondering, WTF? "How the hell did you do that?"

Gambit elevated a lofty Cajun eyebrow. "You're making a joke, belle, non?"

"Non," I snapped. "Seriously. How did you do that?"

He exchanged a Look (you know, that capitalized kind) with Wolverine. "I'm a mutant, chere," he replied slowly, as though to somebody who was very daft.

"Don't talk to me like I'm seven," I snapped. "What the hell is a mutant?"

Wolverine stared. "Are you kidding me?"

"Interestingly enough," I replied, "No. Seriously, what are we talking here? Mutant… like the Ninja Turtles? 'Cause you're way too old, and anyway, Halloween's over."

"The Ninja what?"

"I'll take that as a no. Do you have, like, six fingers on one hand or red hair or something?"

"Are you serious?"

"Depressingly."

"What's the matter with you? Have you been living under a rock?"

"A cardboard box," I shot back. "And only just recently."

"I can't believe you don't know what a mutant is."

"Yeah, well, I can't believe you don't know who Carmen Sandiego is. We're even."

"Do you even watch the news?"

"Do you?"

"We defeated the Mutant Registration Act!"

"I stole the Mekong from the jungle!"

"Enough," Snake snapped, shoving inbetween us. I fell silent. "Look, this is what we all have to sit down and talk about. Something weird's going on. Can you two stop fighting long enough to hear just a LITTLE about it?"


	4. I've Never Stolen Your Mind's Elation

When Gambit explained- stylishly vaguely- who Charles Xavier was, I was expecting a kind of John F. Kennedy type. I mean, with a name like Charles Xavier and an estate that turned out the size of a small, previously Soviet principality, was that so wrong? It was a nice mental image. Bland smile. Ambiguously gay hair. Appealing manners. Aside from a tendency to date famous actresses and then leave them in refrigerators, a good guy. A guy who could explain to me why, within the last twelve hours, I'd been accosted by the FBI, Navy SEALS, some bizarre outfit called FOX-HOUND, and a guy dressed as a giant bat. And then he could make me finger sandwiches while I politely purloined his flagpole (which sounds more sexual that I intended it to.)

Of course, it was not to be. Charles Xavier turned out to be a middle-aged, conservatively-dressed bald paraplegic. Sorry if that kind of brevity's insensitive, but see how politically correct you are, after a day like the one I'd had. Oh, and just as the icing on the cake; he could hear thoughts.

"Miss Sandiego," he said politely, as I came in- Gambit, Otacon, Snake and the Werewolf Of London in tow. "It's a pleasure."

"Actually," I told him, "It's a city in California. But more the point, how'd you know my name? I'd stopped holding out hope of recognition."

"I can see our conversation will be a direct one," Xavier said, with a kind, fatherly smile that immediately rankled. "I'm a-"

"We tried the mutant approach, Chuck," Wolverine grunted, making himself comfortable in a chair so clean and white that it audibly screamed for mercy. "Didn't wash."

"Dryclean only," I affirmed.

"Yes, I can see that," Xavier said with a frown- and a curiously detached expression. "Your companion in crimson seems to share that blissful ignorance with Mr.'s Snake and Emmerich."

"And you claim to have been in the army," Snake shot back, "Yet have never heard of a Metal Gear. I mean, come on. Any 'Nam vet who lost his legs in service and somehow didn't manage to catch wind of Zanzibar doesn't deserve the free parking."

"And NONE of you have ever heard of Carmen Sandiego," I pointed out. "Which pretty much turns the ignorance scale up to… like… eleven! Seriously, ten is not enough. You guys have extra ignorance power."

"What's so great about you?" Snake muttered, frustrated.

I shrugged. "I steal stuff." My tone was sarcastic but- I realized as I said it- my words weren't actually that impressive, out of context. "Big stuff," I added lamely. Paused. "The-"

"-Tokyo Tower," Xavier finished, still staring off into space with that bemused look. "Very impressive indeed."

Okay, so the guy's mind games were getting to me. "If you've got no clue who I am," I snapped, "How did you know that?"

"I'm a telepath. A mind-reader," he said pleasantly, as though it was as normal as… "It's perfectly normal, under most circumstances," he replied to my unasked question, AS I THOUGHT IT. "You and your bandanna'd companion are the first people I've encountered in some time who were genuinely unaware of the possibility of mutants among your contemporaries. I'll explain in a second, but first- unless I'm much mistaken- I just caught a strain of 'cueball did too much acid in Ho Chi Minh', to quote."

I blushed. Is it still rude if you're just thinking it?

"Think nothing of it. Miss Sandiego, I would like you to pick a number- any number at all- and I'll tell you what it is."

Took me all of two confuzzled seconds. "Okay," I said weakly. "Shoot."

He didn't even take a moment to furrow his brow or wiggle his ears or do any of those things a psychic is supposed to do when he turns on the 'psych'. "Sixty-nine," he noted wearily. "Really, Miss Sandiego, such immaturity is not called for at the moment."

"Let's do it again," I suggested, after a stunned second- more at the weary reprimand than the actual guess, as though my chosen number wouldn't and couldn't have been anything else. Well, it wouldn't have been- '69' is my go-to number when people ask me to pick one. Because it's true, there's a certain part of me that never left junior high. "That was a giveaway."

"It would have been a giveaway if you were an adolescent boy," Xavier said dryly. "You're a twenty-eight-year-old, attractive and generally mature Puerto Rican expatriate. Furthermore, I'm not going to ask you to pick again, because you'll pick seventy-one. First you'll just decide to go one above sixty-nine, but they you'll add two to the number as you think just one is too obvious."

The hair on the back of my neck pricked up. I mean, just a few minutes ago, I'd seen Gambit blow up a pair of handcuffs with his bare hands. And that was cool, and thoroughly trippy. But it wasn't like- wasn't like somebody riffling through your head like it's some disorganized used-book store. The creepiest thing was, I couldn't even feel Xav in there. I mean, you'd think having someone messing around with your grey matter would feel- weird, or hurt, or something. But I felt alone, in my head. And it was fucking scary.

"I'm sorry," Xavier said, with immediate, polite regret. "Never again without your permission, you have my word. I've left." And I had to take his word for it, because I wouldn't have known whether he was in there- in here- or not. I didn't have a mutant-invasion-sense to start tingling. For all I know, he could still be poking around up here.

In which case: Hey, Chuck. Long time no see.

"I don't understand," I said weakly, not even taking my usual second to hate the damsel-in-distress cliché.

Xavier sighed. "As I have been attempting to explain," he said patiently, "I am a mutant. A telepath and telekinetic. Thought patterns are as immediately apparent to me as the holes in security around the Mona Lisa are to you, Miss Sandiego. One which subject, her theft is hardly worth the effort you are planning to expend, as you will never find a buyer. Which is not precognition, but merely common sense- but I digress. As I was saying, everyone in this room has a unique and distinctive thought pattern, all of which I sense and recognize. The presence of somebody within my office, no matter how carefully hidden, would still be completely apparent to me. On which subject: you can come out, if you like, Mr. Bond."

"What?" Gambit, Wolverine, Snake, Otacon, and I said in perfect, five-part harmony (Gambit was the soprano). And, to this riveting theme music, a guy in a tuxedo jumped from… god, I don't even remember where he jumped from. I'm thinking under the coffee table, for some reason, but that doesn't seem right. We would have noticed him. I hope.

He had his gun drawn, but didn't fire- probably thinking, as I was desperately hoping, that in the presence of a telekinetic the bullet was likely to stop in midair. Just stared at each of us in turn, like a boxer bullying his opponent down for the count. Otacon dropped his eyes immediately; Snake was more than able to meet the gaze. Guys with guns aren't scared by guys with guns, I guess. Wolverine and Gambit also managed to stare him down, the latter, surprisingly, with much more evident ease; then Tuxedo Guy turned his look on me. And I was able to meet the glare (I mean, come on, after a batsuit, the penguin suit isn't gonna scare me) until suddenly Tux smiled a little bit. Faintly, just an ironic, somewhat sadistic twist of the mouth, but all of a sudden I found myself staring at my shoes. Once I'd counted the grommets, twice, he spoke- voice as tough and steely, and faintly wry, as his gaze. "When M sent me out here, she didn't mention…."

"Psychic spies from China trying to steal your mind's elation?" I suggested. It was a stupid-ass joke, because Xavier's about as American as they come. Still, it got a sickly, nervous chuckle from my companions (and I use that term loosely). And it gave us all a second to- well, I don't know what, say, Wolverine was doing, but it gave me a second to check out the arrival (since I'd been intensely studying my shoes).

Now, whatever I can say or not say about the kind of luck I'd been having that day, I certainly had been accosted by a string of unusually good-looking mannish types in a very short period of time. 'Mr. Bond' had a stony British voice, a stony British face, the jaw of a boxer, and the dress-sense of a heir apparent. Hair was a little too light for my taste- seriously, aren't all British secret agents brunets, isn't there some unwritten rule?- and his ears stuck out in a Mr. Potato Head-esque way, but you know what? Whatever. I'm not that picky.

"Isn't the first phrase that sprang to mind," Bond replied, with that ironic twist firmly applied to tone and mouth. He cast another gaze in my direction and practically peeled off my trenchcoat with the power of his gaze. Not naked! I nearly shouted. Inconvenient for full-time thief! Refer to previous installment!

Xavier sighed. "M," he said lowly, "Didn't, from what I've gleaned of your briefing, fully understand what Her Majesty's Secret Service was venturing into in these dark waters. But if everyone could take me at my word and settle down for just a minute, I can explain what I know of the situation, and perhaps we can sort through this mess and arrange it so that we are all, more or less, on the same page. Now if everyone could please take a seat?"

Otacon applied butt to chair with lightening speed. More slowly, Wolverine, too, sat down. Which kind of surprised me. He didn't strike me as the kind to follow orders- more as the kind to disobey direction simply due to its nature as direction, like an evil actor (although I'm sure that's the only trait he shares with Laurence Olivier). Gambit kind of- well, it can't be described as sitting, but he _reclined_ against a wall in a way true to the spirit of Xavier's suggestion, if not the letter.

Which left Snake, Bond and I standing there, eyeing each other kind of warily. Bond and I exchanged another glance, and this time I didn't look away. "Not even introductions?" he said levelly, and I almost laughed. He was quintessentially British after all.

"I'm sure you heard it already," I replied. "Carmen Sandiego. And I guess I already caught yours, Dick Tracy? You're…."

"Bond," he confirmed. "James Bond."

Maybe the fact that we hadn't devolved into a firefight already, by that point, was a minor miracle. Maybe it was just Xavier messing with our heads. Or maybe it's just an indication of how bizarre and surreal and Twilight Zone-y the whole damn situation was. But, as it stood, Prince Charles and I just exchanged tight, confused little smiles.

"Mr. Bond," Xavier said wearily, "I can entirely understand your reluctance to engage in discussion, which is hardly your forte. However, I wish to remind you that while the majority of your companions in this room are armed, and here for the same reason you are, no one else has drawn. Perhaps you should take the chance of it being in M5's best interests for you to actively engage in this conversation, and find out what is actually going on? If only briefly?"

Very slowly- slow-motion soap opera slowly- Bond slid his gun back into his evening jacket and sat on a loveseat in the corner, nodding at me to join him. I did, just as slowly and almost robotically (James Bond: British PUPPETMASTER.) Then I turned my attention to Xavier, fully prepared and waiting for some exposition worthy of, I don't know, second-rate fanfiction.

God knows we all needed it.


	5. A Mad Tea Party

As Xavier started speaking, I looked around. Conducted a good, old-fashioned, Sandiegan scope-out of the company. Surveyed the property. Counted the sheep. Yes, I'm trying to be funny. Yes, I am aware that I'm failing. You try stand-up comedy after a sleepless night with the Elephant Man's convict brother.

Anyway, scoping the sheep didn't really help me much. We had a bald, paraplegic telepath. We had a metaphysical Cajun wrecking ball. We had a British spy who looked like Mr. Potato Head come into an inheritance. We had a ninja wannabe in a woman's corset, who'd apparently hit both the whiskey and the S+M magazine one too many times. We had his sidekick, a grown man calling himself Otacon. And oh yeah, in case you've forgotten, we had a fucking midget with claws! You just cannot make this shit up. I was the sane, sober one in this crowd, and that was an indisputably bad sign.

"Okay," I said, when we'd finished our tea – or, rather, when I decided we should have finished our tea. I gave them about thirty seconds. "This has all been good fun and we've all had a jolly good laugh, but, you know; busy thief with a schedule to keep, here. This has been lovely, but –"

"You want to know what's going on. Yes, of course." Xavier thought he was exceptionally gracious.

I hated that. "I want to know why I shouldn't just say 'so long, thanks for all the fish' and walk out of here, yeah," I said, glaring at him. "I mean, you know, you rescued me. Thanks. Whoo hoo. Still not convinced I'm safer here than back there."

"Which is quite right and proper of you," Xavier said, very soothingly, causing my hackles to rise again, whatever hackles are. "You are, after all, in the company of agents of both the British Secret Service and FOX-HOUND."

James Bond and Solid Snake kind of looked at each other, then shrugged at me diffidently. I sighed. "Not really convincing me here, Chuck," I said.

Wolverine held up a hand. "Listen to what the man has to say," he said quietly. I considered arguing, but it wasn't really in my best interests, so I just raised my eyebrows and settled in underneath them for a good long pout.

"Thank you, Wolverine," Xavier said, and leaned forward in his chair to address the group. "Here is what we know. Last night, our sensors picked up a very strange change of activity at the atomic level, centered around Ellis island."

"Bat-activity?" I suggested.

"You mean it as a joke," Xavier said, "But you'll come to see that that very suggestion may not be as ridiculous as it sounds. In immediate concurrence with this strange activity, a trusted colleague of mine tells me that most business and government computer servers spontaneous doubled the volume of their pure information files. No outside influence whatsoever."

"What does that mean in normal person words?" I knew what it meant, but really, I felt like being difficult. And I had a damn right, didn't I?

"You know what it means." Oh, right. Bloody telepaths. "Files were spontaneously created. I had an – associate –" Xavier coughed slightly – "Hack into the nature of these files. They appeared to all be of a classified nature; descriptions of various branches of the Secret Service, the personal information of agents, and so on. X-Files Investigations; FOX-HOUND; the Dharma Initiative; the Brotherhood…." Xavier trailed off. "The interesting thing," he said thoughtfully, "Was that it was impossible to identify which were the original files, and which were spontaneously generated. It's all quite fascinating."

"Quite fascinating," Snake agreed, only half-sarcastically. "What does it mean?"

Xavier leaned forward even further, pressing his palms together austerely. "I've had my best telepaths and clairvoyants working on that very question," he replied, "And they believe they have an answer which makes sense and covers all the variables."

"Great," I said. "Let's here it."

"The trouble with this answer is that it's completely impossible."

I thought about that. I looked around at my company and down at my teacup. "Great," I repeated, with a bright smile. "Let's hear it."

Xavier paused. "It appears," he said at last, "That multiple alternate versions of Earth have merged. Various incarnation of this world have become one. Worlds where mutants don't exist. Worlds with aliens. Worlds where the finest law enforcement consists of men dressed as bats. All sorts of strange things; if they had a December, 2007, they were suddenly all having it together. Simultaneously. In the same dimension." Xavier glanced downwards, at his cup, and there was a very, very long silence.

"You're right," I said finally. "That does sound pretty crazy."

"Just crazy enough to be true," Snake muttered. I glanced at him; he held my gaze. "I assassinated a blood-drinking, bisexual Rumanian vampire who liked to dance on oil platforms and seems pretty likely to come back to life," he told me calmly. "I don't know what they call crazy in your Earth, but obviously it's pretty tame. I can accept this guy's theory."

"Well, I can't," James Bond blurted out, with typical British bluntness. "It's mad. Various Earths? It's not conceivable. It's a logical impossibility."

"You went to Eton, and were never introduced to the multiple-Earths theory?" Xavier asked evenly. "I find that very difficult to believe, though I'll refrain from reading your thoughts. Which you seem not to believe I can do, anyway."

"Okay," I said. "Poll. Who thinks this isn't crazy? Raise your hands. Except for you, Chuck," I added hastily. "You just… rattle your teacup."

Wolverine, Gambit, Otacon, Snake and I raised our hands. Xavier glanced at his teacup; it rattled without him touching it.

"Now who thinks it's not crazy?" I said, and raised my hand along with James Bond.

"I feel sort of ridiculously childish saying this," Otacon murmured, "But Carmen, you can't vote twice."

"If that's the way she feels, she is more than entitled to let us know," Xavier chastised him gently. "And it's logical, as far as that goes."

"Look," I said, "As soon as this is over I'm going straight back to believing it's impossible and inconceivable. But let's face it; right now, I can't. It's happening."

"Do you know why?" Snake asked. "How to stop it?"

"Mr. Snake is quite right," Professor Xavier said, a bit grimly for high tea. "It is imperative that we put an end to this immediately."

"Why?" I asked, and received a gift box of confused, irritated male looks. "What?" I defended myself. "It's a valid question. Multiple earths as one earths. People can, um, make friends. Friends are good. Are you trying to stand in the way of friendship?" And in the way of me having my pick of any number of exciting new artifacts to steal – artifacts that didn't even exist on my version of Earth! "Friendship-haters," I said accusingly. "Fun-disapprovers! Down-bringers of peace, love, and happiness! You guys are all… The Man!"

"Miss Sandiego, please," Xavier sighed. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of peace, love, or happiness, let alone you having a chance to raid the treasure troves of countless alternate worlds. But we simply cannot allow this state of affairs to continue."

"Why not?" I snipped, sounding poutier than I intended to.

"It'll cause havoc," Bond replied quietly – very interesting, as he "didn't believe" the crazy situation was even happening. "Various branches of the government, all attempting to do the same – highly sensitive and specialized – job? Twice as many crime lords, with different forms of crime? Not to mention the probably reintegration of communism in Soviet Russia."

"Russia stopped being communist?" I said blankly. "What? Next you'll tell me Quebec wants to be a country."

"Bond's right," said Wolverine. "Carmen, you saw what happened when those two – Mulder and Scully – showed up at FOX-HOUND. It was Chaos. These people are supposed to be protecting the nation. Or at least trying." He grunted. "Not making it worse, anyway. And I've already got Alpha Flight to keep an eyes on. I'm not babysitting extra superspies."

"Beyond that," said Xavier, "There's the danger of the past reintegrating… changing the future… or an unusually perilous alternate world reintegrating. We've already had reports of a dinosaur-like creature ravaging Tokyo. This state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue."

"Well," I said reluctantly, "What caused it? How are we going to stop it?"

"We don't know what caused it," Xavier replied. "However, I suspect that Agents Mulder and Scully do."

I poured myself a second cup of tea in the most skeptical manner one can utilize in the pouring of a cup of tea. "They seemed pretty confused with Campbell," I pointed out; Snake gave one sharp, swift nod. "I don't think they've got the goods on us."

"Well," Xavier said, "From what research I've had time to do, the X-Files team appears to work notoriously quickly. If they didn't have information then, they likely do now."

"So what?" I said, laughing. "You just want us to… what… steal this information from some highly-secured outfit we know absolutely nothing about?"

Xavier smiled at me. "Can you imagine a better woman for the job?"


End file.
